We Seek Not Rest But Transformation. We

Only When We Break The Mirror And Climb Into Our Vision, Only When We Are The Wind Together Streaming And Singing, Only In The Dream We Become With Our Bones For Spears, We Are Real At Last And Wake.

The Real Writer Is One Who Really Writes.

In Her Bottled Up Is A Woman Peppery As Curry, A Yam Of A Woman Of Butter And Brass.

Every Artist Creates With Open Eyes What She Sees In Her Dream.

Purple As Tulips In May, Mauve Into Lush Velvet, Purple As The Stain Blackberries Leave On The Lips, On The Hands, The Purple Of Ripe Grapes Sunlit And Warm As Flesh.